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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25776082">so familiar a gleam</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownlessliestheking/pseuds/crownlessliestheking'>crownlessliestheking</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Homestuck</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Betrayal, Dubious Morality, Fae &amp; Fairies, Fae Magic, Fairy Tale Style, Flower Symbolism, Gen, Purple Prose, Standard Fae Warnings for Cruelty and Harm to Mortals, some gore, storytellers - Freeform, writing experiment</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 07:08:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,367</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25776082</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownlessliestheking/pseuds/crownlessliestheking</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Such is the story of he who was once called Alderking, Lord of the Blasted Heath, He of the Eternal Blade, the Unsplintered Lord of the Cypress Throne.</p><p>Such is the story of he who is now called Alderking, Prince of Thorns, Sword-Shatterer, The Many-Selved One of the Hawthorn Throne.</p><p>Not as happy a tale as you thought, is it?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dave's Bro | Beta Dirk Strider &amp; Dave Strider, Dave's Bro | Beta Dirk Strider &amp; Dirk Strider, Lil Cal &amp; Dave's Bro | Beta Dirk Strider</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>so familiar a gleam</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>As per usual, I started, and I spiralled. </p><p>[Born from dialogue I did in an RP, where Fae Dirk was asked to tell a story about his eldest brother. Fleshed out into this instead.]</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Oh, a story?</p><p>Well, perhaps if you insist. It is a cold, cold night, after all, and you ought to stay inside. The wind howls, it is a fell night, a night of doing rather than watching, a night of stalking and hunting. A night of claw and fang, and blood spattered upon them.</p><p>Am I scaring you, little one? My apologies.</p><p>Shall I start as all faerie tales do, then? Once upon a time, in a far away land, there lived our protagonist. Or, the being this particular tale is about, in any event. Protagonist brings to mind the idea of a hero, and while he may have been worshipped as a god, while he may have played angel and demon, trickster and tormentor, lover and father and brother, hero carries a certain altruism to it that no tale of real faeries has.</p><p>Do you know of Faerie, child?</p><p>Hm. That is a statement, and while not false, it is inaccurate. You ought to be more precise.</p><p>Yes, it is a world apart from your own. Yes, the folk who dwell there are Fair, but cruel. Or cruel, and unfair. Rather, Unseelie. Ah, so you do know that. Good. You know to carry the bite of iron on your wrist too, and silver and rowan besides, good. I smile because you are clever, young one, and the clever ones are always the best listeners.</p><p>Oh, you know the Alderking, too, and his story? The Prince of Thorns, the One-Who-Is-Many? Good, good. No, I would not consider it a particularly happy tale- but that is for later. You’ve <em>seen</em> him? My, now that is impressive. He is a slender, spindly thing is he not? Gilt-gold in the sun as he bleeds to bless this land and bleeds to protect it. Yes, a gracious host to whom you are most grateful, I am sure. He is not so gracious to his enemies. Skilled with the blade, is he, and their life feeds his forest.</p><p>What-? Ah, yes. The story. I was speaking of Faerie. I know you know of it, but it was different then. Much different.</p><p>It was a vicious land, all lush untamed wilderness, with dangerous beauty lurking in every corner. Not all the Folk are Fair, and in that corner of the realm, very few of them were.</p><p>The one this story is about was young then, but still cunning, still vicious, single-minded in his determination, and as all things must, he wished to carve a place out for himself in that land, no matter the cost. And the cost would be high; it always is. Faerie is not a place that wishes to be tamed, and it will always exact a toll for those who make the attempt. It must be muzzled and each tooth ripped out with brutal care.</p><p>It is not a task to be done alone, but he trusted no others and no others trusted him. He had been born in the tiger lilies, nightshade upon his lips, a sword in his hand and yarrow in his heart, and so he was spurned. For he had always been alone, and he knew the truth of the world, the bitterest one that those elder had not yet learned, not with their alliances and their games, their pretense of sharing and hospitality. He knew that only one could be King, and that to be King meant to be alone. So he wandered the land, looking for something though he knew not what. He slaughtered those in his way, and by their lifeblood grew stronger. He lost less and less of his own to the land and to his enemies as he grew older, and soon he began to make a Name for himself.</p><p>You do know the importance of those, do you not? Yes. Correct, you do not give your name to the Fair Folk. But a Name is not solely that which you are born with, but who you are and what you have done- and who you wish to be. And his then was terrible to utter, and so he relished in it and its desolation.</p><p>But that was not enough. He was strong, but not yet strong enough, and still he craved more. He did not yet have followers, those who would bend to his power, though at that time he was contemptuous of those constantly bowing. He did not know what he wanted, nor what he needed, until he found his it.</p><p>An ancient, twisted thing, he found in the Wood, at the heart of a withered heath within. Not even the Fair Folk wandered there, and yet he had, for something irresistible was calling him. He had fought it as best he could- he was not one to yield, he was not one to be controlled, but its song was sweet and its promises enticing. When he realized that others would come for it if he did not, he sought it out. His footsteps blackened the already black, and as soon as he looked around at the bent, twisted limbs of the trees, he knew this is where he was meant to be.</p><p>As soon as he beheld that which had called him, he knew it was his, from the glint in its eyes and its perfect, empty, meaningless smile. He took it into his arms and into himself, and so a bargain was struck. It would grant him power beyond his own, and he would belong to it in return, as would any of his spawn. He had not planned on offspring of any kind, and so this seemed agreeable- he did like this being that he found, and would not mind its company for eternity. And so one became two and two became one, and in that heath life began to bloom.</p><p>Not life as you know it, perhaps, but life nonetheless. A carpet of white grass above the black-ash ground, thick as fur to mask it. Trees in the same hue, twisting from it, sprouting thorns and bearing dark, dark fruit. And in the center, a throne of cypress, whose blossoms twined around the Bone Crown he wore. It was not yet a Court, but he thought it could be, and what he wished he willed into existence. Such is the power of the Alderking, though he did not come to be called that until later.</p><p>That is not the Alderking’s story, you say? That is not the Alderking’s throne, you say? Quiet, youngling. You know nothing. Is the crown not the same? Are the trees not the same? Is the blood that watered his grounds not the same?</p><p>Wanderers came, some bloodthirsty and seeking combat, some simply wishing to watch, others wishing to bend the knee before such power. The first got their desires; the survivors swore themselves to him when they refused to yield and he refused to kill them for it, for they knew they could not win, and he valued strength when he saw it. The second got their desires; they still observe to this day, circles of stone upon his lands, eternally vigilant for one whom they would never call lord. The third got their desires; their labor built his palace and his crown, their blood watered the heart-tree heart-throne of that Court and it flourished, an abomination that drew yet more. He became the Alderking then, first in whispers and then in truth, for what is truth but many whispers in one voice?</p><p>And so the years passed. His Court flourished, not as his power waxed and waxed as does the moon, and he glutted himself upon it and its spoils. Blood, sex, entertainment- it all came to him, from Faerie and from the Mortal Realms, those who danced until they feet bled and fed the grass, those who abased themselves simply to tempt him to laugh. The Alderking never laughed, but his companion was most entertained, and his glee filled the air always.</p><p>Still he did not wish for children, and still his companion did not press him upon it. He did not want them, nor could he bear the thought of sharing what was his and whose he was. His companion did not mind, necessarily; as I said, they were well-suited to one another.</p><p>But a deal is a deal and one must never go back upon their word, and so one day when he ventured further, past the heath and into dark ice and bitter snow, when he stumbled across a foundling babe, he took it into his arms. He was disgusted at first, but his companion’s eyes widened, luminous and beautiful, and it spoke to the babe as it spoke to no other but him. The claim was made and a child had a home. It was a slender, spindly thing, Winter-chill and Winter-bite, with belladonna between its lips and dead tansy in its fingers, fallen hydrangeas around. It did not have a sword, but its fingers curled around the proffered hilt readily. It did not laugh, only regarded the King with solemn eyes of molten gold as it was taken to its new home.</p><p>Perhaps he would have taken the child in anyway; younglings are not so common among the Fae that it would have been left to die. Certainly, that is why he took in another, years and years later, in Summer bright and Summer blight, found in uncharacteristic lilacs and white jasmine, black-eyed susans and daisies, a spring of coriander between its lips, a riot of color. It shied away from the sword, but clung to the King when a hand was extended, and called the King brother, and so it was said and so it was done.</p><p>One for his companion, one for him, perhaps, for the companion liked not the second at all and indeed favored the first. The feeling was, perhaps, mutual on both sides. It could be that his companion had already chosen, and so saw no need for the other. It could be that his companion saw a weakness, a flaw in the other that the King did not then. Whichever it was, the child knew it, and so viewed its Brother-King’s companion with terror, and would cry whenever they were near. It soon learned not to, for the companion adored the taste of its tears, almost as sweet as the scent of its fear.</p><p>But I digress. The children in turn were taught, and he was an exacting teacher, for he was their King and their brother and their Lord, and the debt they owed him they could not begin to pay in kind. Their lives were his, they were his to be shaped and created in whichever image he so chose. Him and his companion, that is, and for a time, they were pleased with the results.</p><p>Glamourie and grammarie, the arts of seeming and shaping; politics and history and the intricate dance of Courts and Thrones and ever-shifting alliances; and of course the art of war in which he had made his kingdom. One bore it better than the other, and bent its mind to learning and mastering its Aspect when it was discovered. The other adored only its Aspect, and did not care much for the basic magicks. It would rather devote itself to art, to music, to all which the other Courts revelled in and which the Alderking only tolerated when they were followed with blood and shadowed by a noose.</p><p>What was the King’s aspect, you ask? A terribly personal question, is that not? He was aligned with the Self, the Ego, the Heart, as was the one his companion favored. And- it? Why do you wish to know? Oh, fine. The other was aligned with Time, Death, The End of All, and perhaps that is why it was disfavored. But perhaps not. It was terribly soft. It was not what the Alderking wished it to be, yet it inclined to him as plants to light. Many say he had his own particular charm, though he was not kind. Perhaps this is why it adored him so, simple and uncomplicated.</p><p>Yes, I know the Prince of Thorns is beautiful. The Alderking is different; his is the smear of fresh blood against skin, searing hot. His is the sunlight catching on the blade before it buries itself in your throat. His is teeth tearing into a still-beating heart and smiling afterwards.</p><p>No, I would not advise you attempt to taste anyone’s heart. You could never pry it from their ribs and keep them alive while doing it, young one. It takes practice.</p><p>As I was saying. One flourished in the Heath in the shadow of the Cypress Throne, and a circlet was placed upon its head. One fled, to another realm, to live amongst the foolish mortals. The King scoffed and called it a good riddance, though he was furious at the rejection, the ingratitude implied, but perhaps he had grown fond of it, for he swore to kill it only if they set foot in Faerie again. It has not set foot in Faerie again.</p><p>Its brother followed it not long after, against the wishes of its Brother-King, and so disobedience begets more disobedience. The circlet was left behind, and in his absence, none could touch it, for the Alderking’s companion would not let it be so. It flowered with cypress and belladonna, oleander and yew, and none could go near it without risking the companion’s displeasure. The King allowed it to leave and passed no comment, for what use are heirs when eternity lies before you? And that one was too like him yet too unlike for him to be comfortable, a distorted reflection. He was, perhaps, pleased to see it leave.</p><p>His companion allowed it, for the one it wanted would always return. And so the years passed, and so his Court grew, and so his name was cursed and praised and screamed until all the realms knew it. Yes, even yours.</p><p>No, no of course that isn’t the end. It nearly is, do not worry.</p><p>The Alderking and his kingdom grew, and grew, and glutted itself on the riches of Faerie and the mortals alike. The other Courts began to worry, the other Courts began to whisper. They could not interfere, but here was a beast who would devour them all and still be hungry after. They could not interfere, but here the beast was at their doorstep, its tongue pink as it licked their blood from its blade. It purred at the taste.</p><p>Their worry mounted, and mounted, and the King’s companion laughed all the while as it feasted. He of the Cypress Throne would not extend his grasp to crush them while his beloved was amused, but they did not know that.</p><p>Just as he did not know why it was his companion laughed so.</p><p>It was dawn, when it came. A whisper in the woods, the watchers murmuring in rustled leaves and stone-eyed gazes widening in shock. A change in the land, a breeze stirring hearts and stirring stories. It smelled of rain, it promised carnage. They began to gather, those who had sworn to the Throne. They circled it, circled the heath and its bone-white grass, and like the Heath and like the grass they waited for blood.</p><p>Three days, they waited there, gathering in greater numbers though the King would cut down those who were within reach of his blade. Three days, amongst the festering corpses and the crows which flocked to them to feast. Three days, amongst the heat and the stink and the heavy presence of the Alderking’s companion, whose mirth only increased.</p><p>It came at dusk on the third day, empty handed. A youngling no longer, but still Winter-chill and Winter-bite and tansy flowering and withering where he stepped.</p><p>Oh, you know this story now, do you not? Good. Now let me finish it.</p><p>The Alderking’s companion sat on the throne. The Unsplintered Lord knew that he would be alone here, as he had not been alone in so long. But he was ancient and cunning, and he knew all there was to know of this would-be usurper, this Prince of Thorns. He forgot that the Prince, too, knew much of him.</p><p>They fought long and hard, exchanging words more than blows. Still, the Prince was unarmed. Still, the King pressed him harder, and cuts appeared on his body to leave naught but smears of flaking golden blood as he healed. The king pushed him towards his throne, intending to gut him and leave the corpse there, let him bleed at the foot of the cypress he had so often sat near when he was younger.</p><p>This would be his mistake.</p><p>The Prince’s palm touched the throne, and it turned to hawthorn. The Prince’s hand gripped its side, and a spear of cypress grew from it, tipped in ice so cold it hurt. The Alderking’s companion laughed all the louder, and wrapped its arms around the Prince’s shoulder.</p><p>The circlet turned to dust in its spot, and the Bone Crown vanished from the Alderking’s head.</p><p>The King is dead, long live the King.</p><p>But before he had been King, he had been a fighter. Before he had been King, he had been a vicious, cruel, cunning thing, empty and hungry. He still was those things. The sword flashed in the last red light of the sun, aimed for the Alderking’s head.</p><p>He smiled, thin, and the blade stuck in his neck, and golden blood poured forth and dripped richly to the ground. He smiled, and the same blood dripped from his mouth. He reached up and frost-coated fingers gripped the once-King’s sword by the blade.</p><p>It shattered in his grasp, and where the pieces fell, trees began to grow. Cypress and hawthorne. And hyacinths, dotted at the roots.</p><p>His other hand drove the spear straight through the once-King’s chest, and pinned him to the young bark of the nearest tree. His wound healed, slow, as the once-King’s lifeblood soaked the hungry grass. He did not look at the Alderking, instead he looked at the Alderking’s companion, and in their eyes he saw nothing.</p><p>You are exiled, said the Alderking to the one who came before him. If you set foot in Faerie I shall have your head.</p><p>You cannot exile me, child, said the once-King to the Usurper. I cut my teeth on the bones of those stronger than you by far.</p><p>And I sharpened my fangs on you, answered the Alderking. You are banished. You are not to set foot in the mortal realm. You are not to remain in Faerie. You will live your days out elsewhere, alone in your misery and impotence.</p><p>You shall regret this mercy, said the once-King.</p><p>It is not mercy, said the Alderking, and his voice carried the weight of its crown. He pulled the spear out, and planted its tip in the ground. Gratitude, or a challenge.</p><p>Kneel, said the Alderking, and as one, the watchers knelt. Kneel, said the Alderking to the once-King, soft as a knife through the ribs. Kneel, or you will be knelt.</p><p>Loyalty so easily bought, is it not?</p><p>The once-King sunk to a knee before the Alderking, and his fury was great though his wound had not yet healed. Still, he bled. Still, the ground drank thirstily.</p><p>Begone, the Alderking said. The once-King left.</p><p>Such is the story of he who was once called Alderking, Lord of the Blasted Heath, He of the Eternal Blade, the Unsplintered Lord of the Cypress Throne.</p><p>Such is the story of he who is now called Alderking, Prince of Thorns, Sword-Shatterer, The Many-Selved One of the Hawthorn Throne.</p><p>No, you’re right, I didn’t say it was the end. But I am done with the telling, and it is late, is it not? Time for things like you to sleep.</p><p>Where did he go? That isn’t part of the story, not at all. And you- ought to stop interrupting. What’s that? You want to know if he's still called once-King?</p><p>How rude. You never ought to ask a faerie their name.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>No credit for the kneel or be knelt line, that comes from Wheel of Time book 6.</p><p>Flower meanings:<br/>Belladonna, nightshade- silence<br/>Yarrow- war, healing<br/>Tiger lilies- confidence, pride, wealth<br/>Cypress- death<br/>Tansy- hostile thoughts, declaring war<br/>Hydrangeas- gratitude for being understood; frigidity and heartlessness<br/>Lilacs- joy of youth<br/>White jasmine- sweet love, amiability<br/>Black-eyed susans- justice<br/>Daisies- innocence, hope<br/>Coriander- hidden merit<br/>Hawthorn- love, protection<br/>Hyacinth- sincerity when blue, sorrow for a wrong when purple</p></blockquote></div></div>
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